groves so dense that light doesn't filter through,
forcing trees to grow ever taller to meet the
sun. Often a batting of fog covers the island.
Monhegan fog is not subtle. It is a wringing
wet, gray shroud, and its appearance triggers
the sob of a foghorn on Manana Island, a small
hump of rock opposite Monhegan's harbor.
There are 4,613 islands off the Maine coast.
At the turn of the 20th century 300 of these
were populated; now Monhegan is one of 14
true island communities left. When islanders
visit the mainland to shop, to visit the doctor,
or simply to clear their heads, local parlance
has it that they're going "inshore"-or, even,
"to America"-as if Monhegan were some
offshore principality, which perhaps it is. "I'm
going downtown," I overheard a woman say, by
which she meant the 30 yards or so down the
path to the post office, which is all there is to
"downtown" except for two small grocery
stores and a scattering of galleries that cater to
summer tourists.
Monhegan in summer is marked by wicker
rockers on wood porches and Scrabble and jig
saw puzzles with just enough pieces missing
after countless seasons to make it frustrating.
Ferries disgorge hundreds of day-trippers, who
spend a few hours hiking the 17 miles of trails,
P CK N G ON LY THE DARKEST CRAN BERRI ES for their Thanksgivingfeast, Winnie Murdock